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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392509">i'll be anything you ask and more</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsismlemonade/pseuds/solipsismlemonade'>solipsismlemonade</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>last call for sin [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Daredevil - Freeform, Fogwell's Gym, Matthew Murdock - Freeform, analyzing dd's fight style, at least quarantine is good for SOMEthing, crunchy sense-oriented almost-imagery!, i'm having fun anyway, i've spent, is it still sparring if ur doing it by urself, just one (1) small drabble, marvel - 616, one of these days i WILL write a proper fic i swear, punching bag!, too much time, unholy amalgamation of comics and show, whoops</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:07:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24392509</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsismlemonade/pseuds/solipsismlemonade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The downpour of the rain lessened, petering off where it hit the gravel of the gym’s roof. Matt could smell it; the heavy scent of night air and rain and the chill it brought. Rain in New York was never good; it messed with his radar and his senses, but something in Matt liked the rain. It felt soothing, like a frigid shower after a too-hot day, or laying down after being on his feet for hours.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>last call for sin [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681792</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i'll be anything you ask and more</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fogwell’s Gym closed at ten pm every night. Matt knew this because his dad used to train there. Jack Murdock would come home at 10:30 smelling of the gritty mineral-water Fogwell’s used in its showers, covered in tender-hot spikes in temperature that Matt had come to realize were bruises, smelling like blood under the utilitarian scentless soap from the corner store. Now Matt would come by just as it was closing, slip the owner – not Fogwell himself, but his grandson – a twenty and lock up behind him.</p><p>Tonight was a bad night. Matt was burning with restless energy and he could hear <em>everything</em>. The patter of the rain, the dusty rattle of the punching bags’ chains, a muffled conversation down the street, the click of the stoplight outside Fogwell’s as it changed colors. The rain helped – kind of – but Matt felt like his skin was crawling. There was too much input, too much of everything. The familiar smell of dust and sweat and old bloodstains helped, a little; if Matt breathed carefully, he could smell the dusty, patchy rope of the ring and the pleather of the punching back, worn thin in places, and the bleach-white smell of the hand wraps he’d brought.</p><p>Just wrapping his hands took almost more concentration than Matt had at the moment. Over the wrist, through the fingers, across the palm and then to pad the knuckles. Once he got over the initial disconnect, though, Matt let the motions slip from him when he went from his right to his left. The scratchy feel of the worn cotton slipping through his fingers and the smell of dust calmed him, a little, enough that Matt could stop hearing every car and pedestrian on the block.</p><p>Pure muscle memory brought him off the bench and into a defensive stance, knees bent and center of gravity lowered, loose fists held in front of his face. No matter how many styles of fighting Stick had force-fed him, he always came back to this. Boxing. Jack Murdock had given Matt a lot; one of these things had been the ability to punch like he meant it, even as a kid. It was one of the few things Matt had left of his dad. He clung to it harder than anything else.</p><p>Matt started out slow, feeling out a rhythm, breath even and measured. The lights were off; the only electricity he could hear was the hum of the street lamp outside. The rattle of the chain was loud enough to block out the beat of his heart and the sound of his fists hitting the back were enough to ground Matt, jolt him into the here and now. Dust. Sweat. Leather and blood and steel and cotton. Matt could still feel a scrape from last week on his knuckles right before the skin split open, the tang of fresh blood filling the air. He kept going, chin tucked, fists high.</p><p>The downpour of the rain lessened, petering off where it hit the gravel of the gym’s roof. Matt could smell it; the heavy scent of night air and rain and the chill it brought. Rain in New York was never good; it messed with his radar and his senses, but something in Matt liked the rain. It felt soothing, like a frigid shower after a too-hot day, or laying down after being on his feet for hours.</p><p>Everything was clearer when Matt was sparring, punching his anger out on leather and sand instead of – instead of other people. Some days Daredevil was an ugly mess of anger and bravado, the feeling of needing to do <em>something</em> other than just sit by and let things happen. It was fear, though Mat had never put words to it. It was the fear that someday something would happen and Matt would be too little too late. It was anger at everyone and no one and himself, the bravado that made the world call him “The Man without Fear”. When Matt was Daredevil, when he was hurting other people, it didn’t feel clean. It felt like tearing at a sore spot, over and over, digging himself deeper and deeper. Sometimes it felt like a release of whatever pent-up rage he had, unleashing the fear of the Devil into the souls of the people he tore through in search of Justice, whatever that was.</p><p>This was different. It was more contained. It was clean and quiet and easy, like breathing out after seconds or minutes or hours of holding his breath. Matt could let the sound and smell and taste of everything else fall away, until all he could hear was the thud of his heart and the rush of his breath, smell leather and cotton, taste the copper of blood and the thick dust clogging the air.</p><p>Matt stopped when he couldn’t hear the rain anymore and his arms felt like they’d fall off. He could hear the rush of his own blood and the creak of his joints, the worrying sound his still-healing ribs made when he bent over to pick up his duffel bag. The hand wraps could stay on; right now they were the only things keeping his hands together and it definitely felt like it. The dark pressed in as Matt unfolded his cane with a flick and tapped his way out, locking out behind him. The night was quiet again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1901 - phoenix (DLID remix)</p><p>so i'm re-watching DD and the idea is that i write a fic / chapter/ drabble for each episode - not necessarily based on the episode or anything, just a dd-centric writing with an open-ended length and subject matter requirement. it's mostly to get me back into a somewhat-regular / -normal writing schedule + so i don't feel guilty about re-watching hjnsjdj</p></blockquote></div></div>
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